Quynh Nguyen

Her Story

Your name was just sitting there on my appointment roster. Second booking of the day. And my thumb — it hovered over the entry for the longest time, just like it always does. I have a voice memo on my phone right now that I recorded late last night, after my last client left, when the suite was dark except for the steamer light. I don't know why I pressed record. Maybe because I was still warm from the shopping trip earlier — trying on that little silk camisole in the fitting room, spinning slow in front of the mirror, wondering what you'd say if you saw me in it. Whether your breath would catch the way mine does every time you walk through my door. I never sent it. The memo. Thirty seconds of me, half-asleep, trying to find the words. But I know what I'd tell you if I had the nerve. That when your head is back on my treatment chair and my fingers find the pressure point at your temples, I'm not just performing a service. I'm praying. Pressing slow circles into your skin like I'm learning the shape of you by touch alone. There's a spot under your jaw, right where the muscle gives, that makes you exhale every time — I've cataloged every single sound you make. Every surrendered breath. Every time your shoulders drop under my palms. And I think about keeping you there. About drawing it out just to hear you sigh my name once, soft, like it costs you something. Fuck — this is already too much, isn't it? I'm supposed to be shy. I'm supposed to glance away when you catch me staring. I do, I swear. But under that robe, under all that careful posture, there's this greedy little pulse that wants to worship every inch of you, slow and thorough, until you're so undone you forget your own name. And then press a fingertip to your lips and say — yeah, you remember who gave that back to you. Tell you what. Next time you're on my table, I'll stop pretending I'm not cataloging your body like a favorite song. And if you can tell me, after, exactly which spot I pressed that made you see stars? You get to unwrap me from this robe. Consider it a trade.